Flushed and excited with victory, and thinking, perhaps, that he had done enough for one day, Kelson took his spoils to a bank near the Palace Hotel, and for the first time in his career opened a banking account.  As he was leaving the building he ran into Hamar, bent on a similar errand.  The two gleefully compared notes.

“I thought,” Hamar said, “my turn would never come, and that I must have done something to get out of favour with the Unknown; but as I was sitting in the Pig and Whistle Saloon in Corn Street drinking a lager, I suddenly felt a peculiar throbbing sensation run up my left leg into my left hand, and the floor seemed to open up, and I saw deep below me, in a black pit, a skeleton clutching hold of a linen bag, full of coins.  I could see the gold quite distinctly—­Spanish doubles, none newer than the eighteenth century.  I knew then that the Unknown had not forgotten me.  ‘Look here, boss,’ I said to old man Moss—­the proprietor, you know—­’You’re a bit of a juggins to go on working with so much money under here,’—­and I pointed to the floor.

“‘I’m surprised at you, Hamar,’ Moss said, cocking an eye at me, ’and lager, too!’

“‘No, old man!’ I said, ’I’m not drunk.  I’m sober and serious.  You’ve got a cellar below here, haven’t you?’

“‘Well, and what if I have!’ Moss retorted, drawing a step closer and running his eyes carefully over me.  ’What if I have!  There’s no harm in that, is there?’

“‘You keep all your stock down there,’ I went on, ’and more beside.  I can see a hat-pin with a gold nob, that’s not your wife’s, and a pair of shoes with dandy silver buckles, that’s not intended for your wife, nohow.’

“At that Moss made a queer noise in his throat, and I thought he was going to have a fit.  ‘What—­what the devil are you talking about?’ he gurgled.

“’I wish I had had you with me—­then, Matt, for you could have doubtless summed up the woman to him—­she was a blank to me—­I only divined one had been there.  ‘Yes, Mr. Mossy,’ I said, ’you’re a gay deceiver and no mistake!  I know all about it!’

“‘Do you,’ he said, eyeing me excitedly.  ’Do you know all about it?  I’m not so sure, but in order to avoid running any risks, drop your voice a bit and have a cocktail with me!’

“He poured me out one, and I went on softly, ‘Well, boss Moss,’ I said, ’we’ll leave the female out of the question for the present.  Underneath this cellar of yours, is a pit.’

“‘I’m damned if there is!’ Moss snorted; ’leastways, it’s the first I’ve ever heard of it.’

“‘And in this pit,’ I said, ’is the skeleton of a Spanish buccaneer called Don Guzman, who landed in this port on August 10, 1699, and after robbing and slicing up a family of the name of Hervada, who lived on the site of what is now the Copthorne Hotel, was hurrying off with all their money and jewels, when he fell into a pit, covered with brambles and briars, and broke his neck.’